In perfect equality clerks rubbed elbows with their “bosses.” Newsboys, with bare feet and dirty faces, shouted witticisms over the shoulders of bankers and merchants. Miners, in their rough working clothes, thronged the field in great numbers and kept up a continuous roar for their team. Automobiles had been barred from the grounds that afternoon, but an endless string of them lined the street outside.
The game was scheduled for three-thirty. At two the grand stand was crowded and the bleachers filled to overflowing. An hour later there was not a seat to be had for love or money; men were scattered all around the diamond, wherever they could find a place to stand, and a solid mass of humanity lined the fence back of the field. The wide veranda of the clubhouse was jammed to the very rail with wives and daughters of the members, in their bright summer dresses, whose gay chatter added a lighter note to ceaseless hum of many voices.
As the hour struck the mine boys took the field for fifteen minutes of short, snappy practice. As they did so a great roar went up from the bleachers, which continued long and loud until stilled by the upraised hand of Orren Fairchilds, who, despite his injury of that morning, seemed to be as active as any man on the field.
There was an anxious look on Gardiner’s face as he came over to where Dick was warming up.
“How’s the arm, old fellow?” he asked.
“Left’s all right, but I’m afraid there’s nothing doing with the other,” Merriwell answered. “I can toss a couple with it, but that’s the limit. Begins to pain right away.”
“Think you can pitch nine innings with your left?” Gardiner inquired.
The Yale man smiled.
“I’ll have to,” he said quietly. “What troubles me more is swinging a bat. I can’t put any strength into it. Guess I won’t be much use to you in the hitting line.”
“Don’t worry about that,” the curly haired fellow said quickly. “If you can only pitch through the game the rest of us will try and look after the batting. I reckon it’s time for us to take the field.”